


Unbidden Images and the Nocturnal Parade

by pssychotropical



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, consensual degradation, harsh and disparaging language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23719063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pssychotropical/pseuds/pssychotropical
Summary: Mark is a popular singer, Johnny is his personal agent.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 10
Kudos: 175





	Unbidden Images and the Nocturnal Parade

Sure, Johnny wasn't the one asked for endless interviews, screamed at by hordes of fans and photographed every step of the way to the album release party, but he did feel responsible for the success. More than that. He thought himself to be one of the key reasons behind it.

Admittedly, he wasn't the guy who had fished Mark's talent out of the river of mediocre singers and terrible dancers and had planted him on the cover of every teenage magazine in the span of just a few months, but ever since being hired as Mark's chief agent, he did hell of a good job and every now and then wanted to pat himself on the back when nobody else would. For instance now, during Mark's last interview before the big party. It was some music station he regularly charted on and was absolutely adored by.

Johnny was standing off-camera, arms crossed on his chest and one hand nibbing at the hair remaining on his hastily shaved chin, following the interview with mild interest. He didn't care about what was being said as much as he cared about Mark's overall presentation. What impression the boy was giving by his responses. What he would seem like in the eyes of a casual viewer of the interview. Whether or not the interview would bring more listeners.

Keeping an eye on Mark's image was part of his job, after all.

What wasn't part of his job, though, was the little game he he liked to play in his head, especially when bored with the repetitive questions asked by the interviewers. It was the game of spotting the fake Mark. For example, the way Mark's ears got red with adrenaline rush, that was undeniably genuine. But the way he used a slightly higher pitched voice to sound softer, it was part of the act. He wouldn't speak like this normally and Johnny knew about it because he knew Mark. He recognized the moments Mark acted like another person, a sweeter and more fragile version of himself, assumed in order to get something he really wanted. The desirable, advertisable version of Mark Lee.

The interviewer moved onto the question of Mark's inspirations, and so he brought up his imaginary high school interest, which he never had and it was a big fat lie, a story made up in a conference room like a chemical substance in a sterile lab. The management guys gauged it to be a profitable backstory to Mark's concept and so it became true. His unrequited love. His one and only. His inspiration behind the latest hit album.

How could you not reciprocate the love of this soft, romantic boy.

That was the concept they were aiming for.

But then, when Mark subdued his voice and cleared his throat, when he crossed his legs and fidgeted with his little hands... When he described that butterfly feeling in his chest while stuttering... In such moments, Johnny caught himself being tricked too. And wanting to believe that Mark was like this. That he could be in love and be pure the way teenage girls liked to imagine.

Moments later, someone yelled and a loud ringing noise flooded the studio. Mark shook the interviewer's hand and stepped down from the stage, posture relaxed, heading towards Johnny with a smile of a little prick.

The prick only Johnny was well acquainted with.

They left the album release party earlier. On Mark's request.

Johnny was driving the car and Mark occupied the passenger's seat, most likely staring at his own reflection in the window, rather than admiring the midnight scenery stretching outside.

"You don't have to drive so fast," he said.

Johnny threw him a glance, skilfully raising one eyebrow. "You've just said you weren't feeling well." He paused, changing his voice from surprised to understanding. He prided himself on being able to easily switch between his role of a lover to that of a caring, resourceful agent. "Which I totally get. Everyone wants to interview you. You have so many events to attend."

The explanation would turn out to be much less admirable than overwork. "I just wanted to leave early." The big star's voice was far from apologetic and had nothing to do with the shy romantic singer everyone loved and watched on TV. Elbow propped against the door, chin in hand, Mark sounded almost bratty.

And only then it dawned on Johnny. The sneaky plan this boy had. "So you lied to everyone?" he asked.

Mark wasn't looking at him. His perfectly made up face was reflected in the passenger's window, eyes contoured black and soft greyish smoke on each of his eyelids, lips covered with a bubblegum pink lipstick and not a single pore visible on his perfectly pale face. He was going to look great in all the press photos taken before the party, in his designer tight pants and a leopard patterned velvet shirt.

But he looked even better now, sitting in Johnny's car, on the way to his villa, far away from all the paparazzi, journalists, photographers and fellow celebrities. Instead of all that buzz, Mark Lee, the one and only, the crush of your daughters and the secret crush of rich guys in suits, he chose to spend the night with his agent. For one reason only.

"So you got horny?" Johnny asked, bluntly but also with a bit of caution, still remembering the faint voice in which Mark had announced to the crowd that he would head back home early because he didn't feel well. He had that worried expression on his face. His eyes flickered apologetically around the room. Even Johnny had believed him.

The moral of the story is you can't ever trust celebrities, even those you spend so much time with by reason of being their agent.

Mark's reflection in the passenger's window cracked a tentative smile. That little _slut_.

"I figured I deserve to celebrate my new release... in a better company." At the end of the sentence, his voice changed. It was a soft, teasing purr that escaped those two bubblegum pink lips.

Johnny's eyes were back on the road. He sniggered but couldn't deny a sudden rush of satisfaction that made him twitch in his pants. Being aroused, in turn, woke up his mean self. "You couldn't even wait for a few more hours? That's how needy you are?"

Called out so openly, Mark transferred his eyes from the passenger's window and looked Johnny full in the face. "I'm a needy boy," he admitted, a thrill creeping into his otherwise steady voice. His tongue flashed, momentarily licking his lower lip, which if Johnny was guessing, he would guess to be a genuine reaction, not practised.

He tightened his grip on the wheel. He was trying his best to distract himself from the sick, little feeling in his gut, but as Mark kept staring at him, expectantly, daringly, burning a hole in his neck, he just couldn't stop his thoughts from running down all the well familiar routes. "I bet you're already hard down there," he teased.

Mark didn't have to reply. His body squirmed in the seat and that was genuine too. Or so Johnny liked to think. He enjoyed to the fullest the thought of being able to make Mark feel this way. The power he had over the man in moments such as this one.

It wasn't the first time they were playing this game.

For the past few months, they had been sleeping with each other on a regular basis, ever since the night Mark got drunk at an award show and Johnny had to drive him home. At the driveway to his big, solitary villa, Mark refused to leave the car unless Johnny came in with him, in his muddled voice explaining how he didn't want to be left alone now. Not on the night of receiving his first big award. What he actually meant by that was that he really wanted to celebrate his success by getting into Johnny's pants. And long story short, Johnny didn't mind that at all.

Once again, separating his sex life from his professional life was definitely one of Johnny's fortes.

He quickly calculated how much time it would take them to get to their destination, and guessing it wasn't that long a way, he decided to keep playing. "Did you get aroused by the adrenaline rush?" he asked. It sounded like he was mocking Mark. Or scolding him for doing something wrong, the way parents scold their children. "All those people watching you, congratulating you. Cameras flashing. And you almost popped a boner?"

What first appeared to be mild curiosity now turned into breathless absorption. From where he was leaning against the door, Mark stared at Johnny without blinking, not denying Johnny's purposely compromising accusation. He was getting a kick out of it. His ears and neck flushed up and he took a shuddery breath in.

"Was it noticeable?" he asked. His voice sounded almost hopeful, like he wanted Johnny to say yes.

Consciously, Johnny smirked at that. "Let's just say it would be ill-advised to keep you among so many people in this state. Good thing we're alone right now."

It was an act they were both well acquainted with, he and Mark. Every now and then, they introduced slight changes, some tweaks around the edges to spice things up even further, but it always went the same direction.

"I'm glad I have someone to be in charge," Mark said then, and Johnny wished he could hear such words more often, especially in reference to things other than sex. But he wasn't going to complain now. Mark had clearly entered the role and anything even mildly related to their professional relationship could easily spoil the atmosphere. He had to choose his words carefully.

"I know you need something in you as soon as possible," he said, voice as steady and crisp as during the official meetings, but at the same time much meaner, more condescending. He wouldn't be able to allow himself to speak this way to Mark if there were any other people in their proximity. "And I also know that you would love for us to just stop the car and do it at the side of the road, so everyone would see you. But you can't always have things your way."

"Johnny..."

"You have to be patient."

The way Mark sharply exhaled at the words, half surprised, half annoyed, was audible despite the engine running loud. Johnny acted like he didn't notice.

In moments like this, Johnny was acutely aware that nothing on the planet could ever be hotter than having this dazed superstar client of his look at him this way from the passenger's seat. And Johnny was going to take full advantage of it, as soon as they would find themselves in the villa. All that after hurriedly escaping what should be one of the most important moments in an album production cycle: the day of the release, with the reviews flooding in online and all the important celebrities gathered in one place, congratulating Mark and trying to chitchat with him for a few moments. Johnny had prepared a detailed list of people Mark was supposed to talk to and make deals with, but as it was often the case, whatever Johnny suggested, Mark would treat it as a challenge to do the exact opposite. Today wasn't an exception.

They parked in the driveway and got out of the car. At the door, Mark fumbled with the keys so Johnny took over getting them into the lock. And then. They were inside. The door closed.

In the dim lights of the hall, standing by a huge printout of his album cover and a photo of himself in a lewd pose of legs spread apart, Mark looked at Johnny with his big eyes made even bigger by the eyeliner. He stood still and didn't say anything, and Johnny was trying so hard not to show how spellbound the view made him feel. He had to keep himself in check. Be unbothered. As always.

The unwritten rule between the two of them was that nobody was supposed to know about the thing they had.

Whatever happened between the photoshoots, concerts and guest appearances, between the conferences, negotiations and scheduled meetings, it was to always remain a secret, never to be spoken about. And the secretive nature of this relationship, the way they had to hide their mutual attraction whenever in public and refrain from doing anything even remotely close to suspicious, it was part of the game. That's what they had agreed on.

Morning schedule, Johnny watched Mark pose for a magazine cover. He hung around the set for some time, taking notice of Mark's artificially romanticised postures while exchanging non-committal pieces of conversation with his co-workers. Then he headed outside, to the coffee machine, in an act of seeming lack of interest.

The very same day, late evening, he pushed Mark against the framed poster of himself hanging in the corridor of his villa and held him tight by the hair and neck, restricting Mark's airflow, slightly but just enough to make him shudder out a raspy moan. He leaned in and spoke directly into Mark's ear, "You loved the photoshoot, didn't you? Sitting there like a slut with everybody watching you. How hard did you get, huh?"

When the sex was over, he took a shower in Mark's lavishly decorated bathroom, the size of Johnny's whole apartment, and then left. Without saying a word. Because really, there was no point anyway. They met at work the very next day. The less they spoke, the safer their arrangement.

That's how it worked.

Just another engagement in Johnny's tight schedule. A pleasant way to spend the night instead of sitting by himself in his sleazy apartment with cold coffee and processed food. A side activity that nobody knew of but which made Johnny special. Because whenever he turned on the TV or saw a billboard in the city, he could think to himself, "I bang that guy."

And that's what made him feel better.

Until that one day when he woke up in Mark's king-sized bed.

It was late morning, gauging by the intense sunshine seeping into the room through the half-drawn curtains. Mark's body was lying by Johnny's side, curled into a fetal position and fast sleep despite Johnny's phone alarm ringing on the nightstand, oblivious to everything in the world, looking like he could sleep through a major natural disaster.

Johnny turned the alarm off.

This shouldn't be happening. He shouldn't have stayed overnight. It had never happened before and wasn't supposed to happen ever.

They had an hour to get to the morning interview they had scheduled for the day, and in his head, Johnny had already started planning all the phone calls to make, as he scrambled to his feet, throwing the duvet off of his body. The sudden movement woke the other man up. He slowly opened his one eye and while looking at Johnny's naked-ass figure, collecting his clothes from the floor, he smiled in a way Johnny hadn't seen him do it before.

Not a reaction Johnny had expected.

Even though Mark was twenty one, when he didn't have his usual make-up on and when his eyes were so swollen with sleep, he looked uncannily youthful. Hoisting himself on one elbow, he greeted Johnny in a sleepy monotone and immediately after dropped his head back on the pillow. Dipping into the fabric, half of his face disappeared.

"In ten minutes I want to see you downstairs," Johnny commanded before slamming out of the room. There was no way would he show up to work without taking a quick shower.

In the downstairs bathroom, he put his clothes on, fastened his watch on his wrist and arranged his hair in the mirror, gargling his mouth with a random mouthwash found on the side of the washbasin. It wasn't his usual level of neatness and he hated the idea of wearing the same suit two days in a row, but tough times required tough decisions.

Walking out of the bathroom, he hurriedly texted a few of his co-workers and planned the quickest route to the studio, calculating the probability of arriving on time. But there was one only thing which he didn't take into account: finding Mark in the exact same state as he had left him in while in bed.

Hair uncombed, face unwashed, the man was walking down the staircase, barefoot and dressed in a grey bathrobe whose belt he was in the middle of tying the moment his eyes met Johnny's.

In an instant, Johnny felt his neck grow hot with anger. "What... are you doing?"

For reasons Johnny could not explain, Mark's didn't express an ounce of worry. There was no hurry in his movements and he even had the nerve to look at Johnny like it was him who reacted in an unexpected way, not the other way around.

Trying to keep calm, Johnny cleared his throat. "We have an interview," to be precise, he checked his watch, "in exactly forty minutes." He stopped there, somehow convinced that the mere look in his eyes would be enough of an indication of how much trouble Mark was getting them into just by standing there and not rushing to put some clothes on.

But no. Mark remained where he was. And to make things worse, he smiled. "What if I tell you I have better plans for today?"

"What do you mean 'better plans'?" Even though he was still containing himself, there was a clear warning in his voice. "What about the interview?"

Mark came a few steps closer. "You could reschedule it," he proposed, like that wasn't the most irresponsible idea on the planet. There was something in Mark's voice, a level of frivolousness and entitlement, and an absolute lack of care for anyone but himself, that caught Johnny off-guard.

"So you can just decide on a whim you won't go to work and I have to spend the entire day apologising to people and rescheduling all of your activities?"

There was a slight shift on Mark's uncannily youthful morning face. He frowned a little, as though Johnny's rightfully harsh tone somehow hurt his superstar feelings. "No, no. You stay here with me. We both take a day off, stay home and do-- other stuff."

Johnny felt his eyebrows uncontrollably shoot up his forehead into an expression of utter disbelief. The phone in the back pocket of his suit pants began to buzz and he found it physically painful not to immediately pick up. "We?" he continued.

"You. And Me." Mark's tiny toes moved against the floorboards.

He was not only irresponsible, he was also ridiculous, and as the new wave of emotion washed through Johnny's body, he ended up releasing a snigger that was somewhere between anger, reprimand and scorn. That was who he had to be dealing with. This prick. "Unlike yourself, I can't just stay home whenever I feel like it. I have to work."

"I thought you work for me, though."

Johnny's eyebrows furrowed. "I didn't know my list of duties included entertaining celebrities at their home when they don't feel like doing things they get paid huge money for."

Mark's eyes grew bigger, like he was surprised by Johnny's reaction. "You know I didn't mean it like this." The way he was looking at Johnny suggested an expectation of a longer conversation between the two of them, in which he could explain himself in more detail, but Johnny's eyes were already glued to his phone.

All the emails, text messages and phone calls were accumulated on the screen. "I have to go," Johnny announced.

That was how things started getting out of their usual schedule.

The following two weeks, Mark didn't keep in touch with Johnny outside of work, and even on sets and during meetings, he seemed to avoid directing his attention to Johnny, like it was some kind of great privilege Johnny had to earn by never questioning Mark's ideas.

Even though Johnny found it unprofessional, he couldn't do much about it, so the days went on, supposedly same as before, at the same coffee machines, with the same glow of stroboscope lights and piles of documents on Johnny's desk.

The next time they met, it was in Johnny's car and Mark was just shy of drunk, happily tipsy on the passenger's seat and so unabashed by the situation that it got on Johnny's nerves. Like most things Mark did.

It was half past midnight.

The situation was, Mark called Johnny to come pick him up from a motel room.

In the complete silence inside the car, Johnny was glancing at the man out of the corner of his eyes, hands tight on the wheel. Twenty minutes ago, he was lying on the sofa with the TV set pleasant murmuring him to sleep, and now he had to drive his happily tipsy client back home, after what was most likely a sex date.

He glanced at Mark once again. The man's make-up was smudged and his hair messily pushed back, no longer as sweaty as it must have been minutes ago. Even Mark's shirt gave off signs of being buttoned up in a hurry, one button skipped on the way up his chest.

"You really thought it appropriate to call me?" Johnny asked, breaking the silence.

Mark shrugged. "I'm drunk and I'm a superstar. I can't just call a taxi." He looked at Johnny. "Also. Appropriate? Seriously? You fuck me."

Johnny cleared his throat, unprepared for the remark. They fell silent for a while and however reluctantly, Johnny had to admit that Mark was right on this one.

"You always drive me home anyway," Mark pointed out.

"After work. Not after a midnight sex date." Saying the words, Johnny felt a weird pang in his chest, which he was soon to identify as jealousy. It wasn't driving Mark home half past midnight that troubled him. It was the fact that Mark slept with other guys because he was a madly handsome superstar and why wouldn't he anyway. That was the part Johnny actually hated. "Do you think I have nothing else to be doing at this time of the night?"

Chin in hand, elbow on the doorframe, Mark smiled mischievously. "Did I make you angry?"

Johnny knew what that meant so he immediately shook his head no. "I'm not in the mood."

For a while, they drove in silence. Mark seemed disappointed by Johnny's reaction, even though he wouldn't say so aloud. With Johnny acting as his private chauffeur, he looked at his own reflection in the window and started fixing his hair and make-up. Worst thing of all, even in this state, messy and fucked, still carrying the smell of a cheap motel room and some guy's expensive cologne, he was stunning. Johnny had never seen Mark look bad.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, half intentionally, half in an attempt to say just about anything.

Mark unglued his eyes from the passenger's window, stopping all his moves at once. "Why?"

Johnny shrugged. They were standing at a red traffic light and he was tapping the wheel, unsure of what to say next. "Your fridge is always empty," he started, stating the obvious, "and there're some noodle bars still open, so I figured..." he pointed at a street to their right and Mark's eyes followed.

Soon, they were both seated at a wobbly plastic table inside a small bar smelling of fried oil. Mark had a cap on his head, every strand of hair hidden underneath it, and as he leaned against the table with all the smudged make-up distorting the contours of his face, he was barely recognisable. He made an order and the waiter quickly departed, leaving them alone in a room where a few old men were drinking alcohol and slurping on noodles.

"Lovely place," was Mark's first comment, and Johnny couldn't tell if it was supposed to be snarky or funny. He frowned anyway.

"Are you complaining now?"

Mark chuckled, in a clearly tipsy way. "I'm just being my usual picky self. You know, comes with the fame."

One arm draped over the back of his chair, the other on the table, Johnny began tapping with his fingers. First time they met somewhere other than Mark's bedroom and it was a crappy bar for hungry alcoholics. There were dried stains on the plastic surface of the table and tiny pieces of food stuck in the grooves, and Johnny couldn't stop staring at them until Mark's voice diverted his attention.

"But honestly," he said, in a casual voice, as if they were in the middle of a pleasant conversation, "back in the days, before random girls started following me with their cell phones every time I tried going anywhere public, I totally spent time in places like this." Johnny felt mildly confused by this piece of information. Mark continued anyway. "There was a ramen shop a block away from where I lived. I would always go there, and like, sit in a corner and write some lyrics. It's kind of like an origin story."

Johnny took a good look at Mark's face, almost like playing the game of spot the fake Mark. "You're making this shit up," he decided after a moment's consideration.

Mark raised his eyebrows at the accusation, so high they almost disappeared under the cap. "Why would I be making this up?"

"You always do."

"When my managers tell me to. But why would I make shit up to _you_? What's the point?"

Johnny waved his hand and then continued tapping. "I don't know. Why are you telling me about it, then?"

"I don't know?" Mark's voice sounded sincere and Johnny felt a little bit regretful about his question. "I just thought I could tell you stuff since we're already sitting here. What are we supposed to do? Stare at one another in perfect silence?" He moved in his chair, motioning towards the drunk men a few tables away from theirs. "Besides, it kind of looks like a place where people, you know, hang out and have some interesting conversations. Like, where you never know who you're gonna meet."

Johnny gave it a thought. "Yeah, it kind of does."

There came another pause. Even with Mark looking at him expectantly, Johnny made no attempt to uphold the conversation. Mark leaned forward. "Come on. Relax. We're incognito here."

And there was just a little bit too much frivolousness in Mark's voice, in Johnny's view. He lifted one eyebrow. "Relax? If you think this is my favourite way of spending the night, I'm sorry to disappoint you."

Like struck by an open hand, Mark moved away from him. "Then you shouldn't have asked me to come here."

"Or maybe you shouldn't have said yes."

Being blamed for Johnny's bad mood, Mark winced with annoyance. He leaned against the back of his wobbly plastic garden chair, sliding both hands into the front pockets of his jeans, the cap low on his forehead, throwing a shade over his eyes. Just then, Johnny spotted a hickey on the man's neck. A fucking hickey.

"Do you hate your make-up artists or do you want to get yourself into a scandal?"

At first, Mark didn't get what Johnny meant. Then, he lifted a hand and covered the spot on his neck. "Johnny Seo--"

Johnny shushed him immediately. "We're in public."

"And? I'm the one people know." Before Johnny had the time to retort, Mark kept going. All of a sudden, he sounded angry. "You could be sitting here every damn night and on no occasion would strangers come over bother your ass about autographs."

There was nothing really to say to that and Mark knew he won.

"Also, don't try talking to me about professionalism. You didn't even ask me about this Japanese TV show appearance. How professional is this?"

And that Johnny didn't see coming his way. Especially not out of the mouth of this half-drunk Mark with a cap so low you couldn't see his eyes. "I had a reason to decline it."

"Oh yeah?"

"It's on your birthday and you wanted to celebrate it in private."

Mark sniggered. "Oh. So you did it for _me_?" He was mocking Johnny. Clearly. "What? You think I want to celebrate it with _you_?"

They both fell silent when the waiter came over.

It happened again. A few times.

Each time, the phone call came around midnight, forcing Johnny to give up on his ambitious plans of eight hours of sleep. He had to rush out of his apartment, buttoning his shirt on the way down the staircase, and drive to the given address, whether he felt like it or not, with the gps speaker as his sole company during the trip.

Keeping an eye on Mark was part of his job, after all.

It didn't matter if Mark's midnight calls were an act of provocation, revenge, or merely Mark's usual weekend activity that had nothing to do with Johnny. It also didn't matter if Johnny felt angered by them, or jealous, or both at the same time, because whenever he heard Mark's voice over the phone, tipsy and a little bit lost, his body automatically sprang from the sofa. He threw the blanket to the floor, stormed into the bathroom and put on whatever clothes he could find at hand, keys clenched in his fist. And it wasn't until he could see Mark's figure standing by the hotel's entrance, his baggy sweater on, cap on his head, that he could sigh a breath of relief. And then become angry all over again.

Mark clambered into the car with an almost theatrical difficulty, then dropped heavily onto the passenger's seat. He looked into the rear-view mirror and said, "Let me guess. You had better things to do tonight."

One hand on the wheel, the other on the keys, Johnny huffed out a feigned laugh. "You bet I had." He pointed a finger at Mark's chest. "Fasten the seatbelt."

It went on until one midnight.

They drove in silence, as usual, and Mark had his eyes fixated on his window reflection, out of habit fixing his hair. In the suffocating atmosphere inside the car, Johnny tried to focus his attention solely on the road, but his thoughts were hard to steer away from Mark. He wondered whether he should say something to the man, what he should say or if he even had the right to say things, to initiate a conversation with Mark, but as Mark remained silent, like every night, blankly checking the messages on his phone, Johnny couldn't bring himself to express any interest either.

They parked in the driveway and it could have ended here, like it usually did, with Mark swiftly getting off the car and shutting the door without telling Johnny goodbye, but then it didn't.

Mark put his phone back into his jacket but didn't leave the car. Johnny shot him a sideways look.

"Any more orders?" he asked, in a condescending tone.

Mark stared at him intently for a moment or two. "Come inside?"

Part of him expected what coming inside Mark's villa would lead to, on the basis of his previous experience, and Johnny didn't really know if he was in the mood to play pretend. Yet another part of him, the greedy egotistic side of his personality, wanted to spend as much time with Mark as possible, take anything Mark would have to offer, squeeze every second out of this midnight trip and let himself be sucked into the vortex of his own creation, head first.

He removed the key from the ignition and the headlights switched off, making everything around them just a formless mass of darkness and silence, inside of which the only thing Johnny was sure of was the sound of Mark's steady breathing.

When they found themselves inside the house, Mark flipped the dim in-floor lights on.

He was standing a few steps away from Johnny, his facial expression reminiscent of a photoshoot, as if he was posing but didn't think Johnny would realise that. His black hair was pushed back, make-up almost untouched. The first two buttons of his shirt, left undone, seemed to invite the hands of the spectator, tease him, play with him. It made Johnny wonder if Mark had made the same pose in front of these other men.

"Do you want to tell me something?" he asked Mark, hands in the pockets of his jeans, anxiously fidgeting with the keys. It could have sounded like a normal question to someone from the outside, someone not acquainted with their relationship, but Mark immediately detected the challenge it contained.

Looking straight into Johnny's eyes, he cleared his throat. "Did I make you angry?" Same question, different occasion. And an entirely different weight to it.

Mark's voice, however quiet, reverberated off the heavily panelled walls of the corridor.

Johnny didn't respond. He didn't even know how.

There was a pause and Mark approached Johnny, as if the next words to come out of his mouth would gradually become so quiet, they would have to be spoken right into Johnny's ear. Standing at an arm's length from Johnny's motionless figure, Mark said, "I was thinking of you the whole time."

Johnny hissed a breath in.

Whatever Mark's intention was and whatever direction their conversation was going in, the words woke up a sudden flame of anger inside of Johnny's body, which he didn't know of and hadn't expected to feel. The words, their dirty implication combined with the sincere, almost innocent tone of Mark's voice, were simply too good to be true. They reminded Johnny of a staged interview. Of a list of questions which all had their answers written beforehand by the public image team, ready for Mark to just read out loud from the teleprompter.

"I wanted to make you angry. And jealous." As Mark went on, his voice gained more juvenile confidence, which Johnny despised but also secretly loved hearing. "I wanted you to think about those men every time you stayed home and couldn't fuck me yourself."

Every sentence sounded like a well-rehearsed line from a scenario. Like he was proud to act them out on stage. To step on Johnny's ego and see his reaction.

There were really no words Johnny could respond with, having Mark's big made-up eyes look up at him, expectantly, daringly and so shamelessly...

So instead, following a sudden impulse deep inside his head, he slapped Mark in the face.

The ear-piercing sound of his hand hitting Mark's pale skin echoed in the room, immediately followed by a breathless mumble which Johnny realised with a delay to have come from Mark's mouth, and not his own. "Fuck."

In that exact moment, Johnny's adrenaline had spiked.

He took a deep breath in to keep himself in check before asking, "Is that too much?" and taking an attentive look into Mark's eyes.

They were gleaming.

"Do it again," Mark said, sounding challenged. "Just don't leave any marks."

Johnny barely had any time to think when his hand shot out to do it again, just like Mark had asked.

The man's head bobbed to the side. His black fringe spread over his eyes like a curtain and he lifted one hand to immediately push it aside so it wouldn't obscure their lingering eye contact. He dropped his both hands and kept staring at Johnny, full in the face. Even now, he was so confident. Johnny couldn't even be angry at the man without making him enjoy it. Every slap only seemed to make Mark more full of himself.

"Come on. Be mean to me."

Johnny's voice came from deep in his throat, as he mustered out his last bits of level-headedness. "You want that?"

All Mark had to do in response was roll his eyes like it was such an obvious thing Johnny shouldn't even ask. Patronising little roll that matched his rude little face, those sharp corners and contours existing just to make you avoid touching them. Don't mess up the make-up type of face.

For a moment longer, Johnny studied Mark's expression, like he wasn't altogether convinced of the sincerity of the request and of Mark's awareness of what it meant to Johnny. The atmosphere in the room was saturated with challenge and tension, and thoughts quickly swelled in Johnny's mind, mean thoughts multiplying all at once, ready to burst off of his tongue.

"Sometimes I just want to tell you what an awfully entitled piece of shit you are," he began, at first with a bit of hesitancy. He was looking for Mark's reaction, part of him ready to take everything back, in case Mark would change his mind and threaten to fire him. In case Mark would be hurt and would demand to stop their performance before it went any step further. But Mark didn't seem to be about to do none of these things. He was listening attentively and didn't cut in. So Johnny continued. "You think everything revolves around you. That you're the very centre of things. All the time." As he kept speaking, he realised that he was slowly getting aroused. He felt his cock starting to swell. "Just because you're so young and you've already made such a career, you think you're allowed to say and do everything that comes to your mind."

Third slap. Like a full stop at the end of a sentence. It landed on the same cheek as before and Mark whined louder.

"Just because you're on TV and I'm not, huh?"

Fourth slap. Mark closed his eyes seconds before Johnny's hand met his other cheek, flinching at the pain before it was inflicted. There was an obvious bulge in Mark's tight jeans at this point. Before he turned his face back towards Johnny and before he opened his eyes again, Johnny's hand was on his sharp chin, gripping it with no resistance. "Look at me."

Mark looked.

He didn't say anything back; it was one of the rare occasions when he didn't blurt out an immediate response, instead letting Johnny's words gain their full force, expand in time. He was just looking at Johnny and there was no longer a hint of smugness on his reddened face. The print of all of Johnny's five fingers was traceable on both of his cheeks.

"You let them fuck you just so you could call me afterwards?"

Mark didn't reply. His eyes were glimmering wet and his stare was so intense it seemed like he had stopped blinking just so he wouldn't miss any of Johnny's facial expressions. He was so hard Johnny could imagine the precome getting his brief boxers wet under the jeans.

"So I could call you a slut?" he continued, tightening his grip on Mark's chin. Mark winced and closed his eyes involuntarily. His eyelashes were getting damp. "You are a slut. But none of your other fuck boys are going to tell you that. You need me to do it because I am the only one being honest with you."

His hand left the chin and Mark took a shuddery breath in, midway through which Johnny's final slap landed on his cheek. His moan was now loud and clearly sexual.

He was loving it.

"You're a slut," Johnny repeated, this time with more confidence. He was sure that if he kept going Mark would come just from being insulted, and that would make their fun short-lived. "Get on your knees," he ordered.

Quickly kneeling, Mark looked up through his wet eyelashes and sweaty hair strands. His eyes were big and bright and all Johnny wanted right then was to fuck his mouth and make him keep looking up like this, eyes fixated upwards, all the emotion visible in those big, big pupils.

The anger inside him was boiling and he realised that the slaps did nothing to vent it out. He was still angry at Mark, at how far away he was from Johnny and how unachievable. And he was angry at himself too, for being so obsessed with his own client that he was able to watch all of Mark's interviews and masturbate to them, even if he could have the real Mark the very next day. That he had ever thought that he could have Mark in any other way than this. Any other way than having him on his knees ready to suck him off.

It was pathetic.

He slid his belt out of the loop, undid the button, unzipped the pants. In one swift move he took out his semi hard cock and gave it two strokes to bring it to full arousal. With the other hand, he took hold of Mark's hair and pulled at it experimentally, making a spasm of pain contort the man's face.

"You don't ever have enough, huh?"

Mark released a pleading whine. It meant no. He never had enough.

"You want that cock, don't you?"

In response, Mark closed his eyes and opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out and down onto his lower lip, pink and salivating. He tried to lean forward but Johnny's hand kept him at a distance. Mark's hot breaths were washing over Johnny's crotch.

"You're so pathetic," he commented before finally pulling Mark by his hair and right onto his dick. Mark's slutty lips wrapped themselves around it automatically, and he was so good at sucking cock it angered Johnny too, like so many things about Mark. Without waiting for the man's reaction and not letting him get used to the girth between his lips, he pushed to the hilt, until the tip of his cock hit the back of Mark's throat, making him let out an immediate choking noise.

For a longer moment, he held Mark firmly in place, experimentally, as if to check how long he could hold his breath. Then he relaxed his grip, allowing Mark to pull out and take a desperate breath in. He looked surprised, but in a positive way. Sometimes it seemed to Johnny that he liked it most when they didn't communicate.

The next time Johnny's tip prodded his throat, Mark gagged and flinched but Johnny's hand once again kept him in place, steady and firm, for a few excruciatingly long moments.

Then Mark was allowed to pull out. One loud breath in, followed by a wet cough. There was spit overflowing from the corners of Mark's lips. He wanted to wipe it off but Johnny pushed his cock right back in, so Mark's hands landed on Johnny's thighs instead, fingers clenching on the material of Johnny's jeans, looking for a way to keep his balance.

"Focus, Mark." It was a rough command, full of complaint. Mark tried to nod his head in response and let it be known he was doing his best, but the restricted movement of his head was barely noticeable. Johnny's hand kept him motionless around the cock. There was another long pause before he finally started bucking his hips, pushing and pulling, moving freely in and out of Mark's mouth.

"Look at me," Johnny commanded again, his husky voice almost alien to his own ears. He knew he was getting close and he was trying his best to stop himself from shooting too fast.

Mark was making a mess of spit and precome, dripping down his chin. He kept making choking wet sounds but the white noise in Johnny's head was louder, muffling Mark in Johnny's ears.

Mark's eyes were closed, with tears escaping their corners, and Johnny told himself that if he wanted to come, the only condition for him shooting his load down Mark's throat was that Mark had to be fully attentive. Now, at least once, it had to be Mark watching Johnny, not the other way around.

"Eyes up. Look at me." And Mark did. His eyes were red and shiny, pupils enlarged. And Johnny knew that he was loving it. He loved when Johnny treated him like a slut.

He came and Mark tried to swallow his load, but his attempt was poorly executed and most of it dripped out of the corners of his mouth anyway, mixing with his spit as he coughed.

And then.

A long pause.

Johnny was breathing heavily. He had his back against the wall, eyes aimlessly wandering up the dark ceiling. Only once he regained full control of his muscles, he tucked his cock back into his underwear and zipped his pants, and then, as if suddenly remembering, he asked, "Did you come?"

And from where Mark was still kneeling on the floor, come and spit on his black shirt, he heard, "Yeah, I did."

Another pause.

Johnny cleared his throat. "I think I have to go."

All the pugnacity had been drained out of Johnny's body.

The next two days resembled walking through a fog.

All the calls, documents and meetings suddenly became an overwhelming mass of information which Johnny was barely able to keep up with. His phone, the extension of his body, was constantly buzzing with reminders about things Johnny had long forgotten about. He felt unusually distracted, his own thoughts formless and impossible to navigate, escaping any logical reasoning whenever he attempted to apply it. But what seemed worse than anything work-related, what kept Johnny's mind busy day and night, was the realisation that he no longer knew what to think of Mark. And their relationship.

Two days passed and someone rang the buzzer to Johnny's apartment. A rather unexpected event, considering how few people Johnny knew and could suspect of a Sunday morning visit.

Standing at Johnny's doorstep was a small figure dressed in a grey, unbuttoned flannel shirt thrown on top of a black t-shirt, in a pair of equally grey coloured sweats and a cap so low on the man's forehead that you couldn't see half of his face. An anonymous look, so bland it made you want to redirect your stare. And then the realisation hit Johnny in the head.

"Mark?"

The man recoiled hearing his name. Without thinking too much, he stepped into the apartment and Johnny closed the door.

"I'm sorry I'm bothering you at home," Mark said, taking the cap off. A few strands of his black hair funnily stuck out in different directions, right at the top of his head. He didn't have his usual make up on, and there was a slight stubble on his chin, which was weirdly captivating to see, a sign of imperfection so unlike Mark. "I need to talk to you. These past two days you seemed to be avoiding me."

All of a sudden, Johnny's head throbbed with thoughts, most of which had to do with the feeling of guilt and the simultaneous disbelief in the whole situation. Sunday, early morning. Mark here, in his apartment. And on top of that, the low tone of his voice. So unlike the high-pitched Mark on TV.

All Johnny could bring himself to say was, "What do you want to talk about?"

Mark looked him in the eyes. "Are we... okay?" he asked, his voice betraying a little bit of concern, which was also very unlike Mark. Or at least what Johnny had always assumed to be Mark. When Johnny's eyebrows dropped, Mark explained himself in more detail. "I mean, the last time we had sex, that was pretty intense and, don't get me wrong, I absolutely loved it, but I was just thinking..." His frowned. "Did you... not like it?"

Johnny's lips parted but for a longer while no words came out. He crossed his arms on his chest and cleared his throat, suddenly feeling even more guilty about avoiding Mark, not talking to him on the set and not reminding him of his schedule. Which was very unlike Johnny. After all, Johnny was so good at separating his professional life from his private life--

Patiently, Mark's eyes watched him hesitate over his answer.

"I think I should be the one asking that question," Johnny admitted. "I'm sorry I didn't stay... afterwards." He found it hard to force the words out, but once they left his mouth, he felt good about them. They were the closest to expressing what he had on mind.

"Well, I didn't ask you to," Mark replied, half amused, half nervous. He shook his head. "I mean, I wouldn't mind it if you had stayed, just so you know."

Johnny hummed in acknowledgement.

For a while, they stood in silence.

The next thing Johnny wanted to say to Mark would take a great effort from him, and it came as a relief to notice Mark's eyes wandering into the apartment rather than staring so intently into Johnny's face. Mark's curious eyes scanned through the mess that was Johnny's living room, and Johnny said, "I guess I felt shitty about going so hard on you. With some of the things I said..."

Mark brushed that aside. "Hard on me? Please. That was nothing." He led his eyes back to Johnny's face. "And honestly? I think I like having someone tell me that I'm an entitled piece of shit every now and then. Especially when it's sexy."

Johnny realised that he began feeling pleasantly light-headed. A thought briefly flitted through his head, about how casual and nice Mark looked while standing there, at the entrance to Johnny's living room, in an anonymous outfit and no make-up on, his body seemingly pulled into the apartment by an invisible force. He cleared his throat. "Do you... want to come in?"

Mark's eyes momentarily grew bigger, flickered, then came back to their regular size. "Yeah. Sure."

**Author's Note:**

> tried to type out smutty content, came up with this. how i title works is i open books and pick words at random, works every time. guess if i don't publish it now, i might never do


End file.
